By: James G. Piatt He is a divided self, Divergent egos with flights Into memories without maps, Detached, intoxicated with his Own importance: He is at war with himself, In a metaphysical battle Against unfathomable enigmas, He exists between reality and…
By: James G. Piatt I devour the rocks that lie Beneath my wandering feet,The bushes with red flowersThat line the hungry brook,Then I digest nouns, verbs andPrepositions that paint the Landscape with edible poems. I listen to the grumbling earth, the…
By: Linda M. Crate Music moves me. I think it moves all of us. There’s just something in the poetry of words sung out loud to the chorus of a beat or melody that dances emotions to life in the…
By: Raymond Greiner My name is Caleb. I am 16 years old and documenting my life thus far. I have no parents or siblings. I was scientifically created and live in a barracks facility among 100 males my age with…
By: Kousik Adhikari For the last few days rain shut me indoor, Lying on my ancestral bed that shrieks with every Splash of body I see the rain’s youth dancing On roofs, leaves, street’s black face, Water hissing, galloping the streets,…
By: Kousik Adhikari Simply you have to mount a taxi That knows the history and geography of roads And fall on Southern Avenue, You will not fall. May I promise? Simply you have to tap the door That gets rusted waiting…
By: Kousik Adhikari Bankim Chandra Chatterjee (1838-1894) has been undoubtedly and truly the finest product of the 19th century literary renaissance and the pioneer of the novel form in Bengal as the then capital of British ruled India. His first…
By: Danny P. Barbare Sitting in the lounge chair by the fire place watching the World Series on a cold October night eating a pumpkin cookie and sipping on sweet apple cider.
By: Danny P. Barbare Cleaning the bathroom it’s not a flowery chore so womanly or pretty just ask the shiny tile once covered with mildew or the polished fixtures once covered with scum.
By: Kuzhoor Wilson Translated by : Anitha Varma The forgotten umbrella Fretted Did he get wet? Cry because it was missing? Would his mother have given him a beating? Benches and desks Are cozing The board still retains The day’s remnants Night…